The Jailers of Fate
by cc62827
Summary: Begins after the events of the first movie and will be somewhat AU from there. Logan comes back to the mansion and helps Marie learn to control her mutation. Will be Logan/Marie.
1. Chapter 1: Thought

_Aerodynamically, the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly. But the bumblebee doesn't know this, so it goes on flying anyway. –Mary Kay Ash_

"What was it like?"

The words tumbled out of my mouth without bothering to bypass my brain, and I had to resist the urge to slap a hand over my mouth. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Mr. Summers' chin jerked up at the sound of my voice, but his eyes stayed tightly closed. He tensed for half a second, but relaxed when he identified my voice. With the ease of someone who'd been doing it for a very long time, he slipped the red lens glasses back over the bridge of his nose and, after they were settled, replied.

"What was what like?" He asked in a patient teacher-student type voice. It was kind of funny, really, most of the kids at school didn't know that underneath the calm façade he showed us in class, he had a whole different personality. I'd seen it as he gave orders on the jet on the way back from Liberty Island. It had been—

"Rogue?" He prompted, interrupting my thoughts when I didn't answer him right away.

Well crap. I wanted to smack myself. Since arriving at Professor Xavier's, I've learned that there's a strict don't-ask-don't-tell policy among mutants. We all have a story, and if someone wants to share it with you, they will. But you don't press for it. Period. Breaking the rules was starting to become a habit of mine. Maybe I could keep them straight if someone took the time to write them down for me.

I stifled the sudden impulse to growl and decided in this case retreat was the better part of valor. Right now it probably wasn't a good idea for me to be around Mr. Summers. Too bad I hadn't thought of that before I opened my mouth in the first place. "I—it was nothing. I was mostly just talking to myself."

I couldn't see his eyes, but from the tilt of Mr. Summers' head, I was pretty sure the look he was shooting me was skeptical, at best. "Did your self answer?"

Before I could stop myself, I gave him a dirty look and said, "Yeah. My self says you're a dick." This time, I did slap my hand over my mouth, horrified. "Oh my God! Mr. Summers, I'm sorry! I didn't mean—"

He laughed. "We're not in class. You can call me Scott, or Cyclops if you prefer." He scooted over and patted the bench beside him. "Still working the Wolverine out of your system, huh?"

I managed to keep from sniffing as I sat down on the bench. He was wearing too much cologne, and I literally had to bite down on my tongue to keep from commenting on it. Once the urge passed, though, I shot him a rueful smile. It wasn't his fault that the characteristics I'd picked up when I meshed with Logan on the Statue of Liberty seemed to give me the uncontrollable urge to poke the bear where he was concerned.

"Sorry," I said ruefully.

"Hey, it could be worse. I helped Jean get you to the lab for an exam after the time in his room, and half way there you bit me."

If my eyes got any wider, they'd pop right out of my head. "That was you? I'm so sorry, Mr. Summers! I was still kind of out of it, and—"

He just waved off the apology. "No hard feelings. It wasn't your fault."

Right. Not my fault. I shook my head a little and tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I couldn't quite meet his eyes when I answered. "That's what people keep telling me, but I'm still sorry."

There was a heartbeat of silence, then Scott's voice, less companionable, more protective. Guess he had three personalities—fearless leader, concerned teacher, and big brother. "Rogue, is everything alright?"

"Sure. Peachy," I said with a bright—if forced—smile. Jovial. I was going for jovial. And maybe a little carefree, even.

Scott snorted lightly. "You aren't planning a future in acting, are you?"

I decided my best bet was to ignore him and went with that, but Scott apparently had other ideas. He nudged my shoulder with his, again with the big brother vibe.

"Are you—missing Wolverine?" He finally asked, sounding uncomfortable.

Ok. That was enough of that. I turned my head and stared hared into the lenses of his sunglasses to make sure I had his undivided attention, and then I very deliberately rolled my eyes. Yes, the entire world knew I had a crush on Logan. And yes, the entire world knew I hadn't wanted him to leave. But unlike the entire rest of the world, I knew for a fact he was coming back. And for right now, that was enough.

Scott got the message and held up his hands defensively. "Ok, not Logan. Something else?" He paused. "What were you talking about when you walked up? And don't give me that crap about talking to yourself."

I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks. Where Scott was concerned, Logan had no qualms saying exactly what was on his mind, and that's what had made me blurt out the question. But the subject, thinking of it, wondering about it, that had been all me. I started to open my mouth and tell him it was nothing, but the thing was, I _really_ did want to know.

"I was just—" I trailed off, not sure exactly what to say. When words didn't magically formulate, Scott spoke softly, encouraging me.

"Rogue, I'm your teacher. On Liberty Island, you handled yourself well. So I'd like to think that at some point I'll also be your teammate. And if you need to talk, I'm a good listener."

I licked my lips nervously and considered the offer. If I didn't ask now, I probably wouldn't get another chance. I was pretty sure he was a good guy, in spite of the animosity with Logan, but Mr. Summers wasn't always this approachable. Staring hard at my gloved hands, I took the plunge and continued, voice low. "I just wondered what it was like when you got your glasses and goggles. When you learned to control it."

I didn't have to clarify which "it" I was talking about. The difference between a "dangerous" mutant and a "safe" mutant is, I think, control. Some people might argue that there's no such thing as a safe mutant, but the way I see it, safe mutants can control their gifts. Dangerous mutants, on the other hand, might accidentally send a building crashing down on a crowd of people. Or they might put a boy who did nothing wrong but kiss them into a coma for three weeks.

There was a long pause, and then Scott sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. I flinched a little and had to fight not to check and make sure my clothing hadn't shifted and left skin exposed that he might brush against. I forced myself not to, but it was hard.

"Rogue—," he started, his tone heavy with pity. Pity that I didn't want.

"No," I interrupted. "You don't have to feel sorry for me. I'm not asking for that. I just—want to know. What was it like to have control over it? To go from not being able to stop to—" I broke off suddenly, not willing or able to continue. He knew what I meant, anyway. He could either answer or not.

There was a long pause, and then, finally. "It was—a miracle."

I squeezed my eyes closed and gripped my hands tight enough to crack the bones in my knuckles. They ached a little, another holdover from Logan. Without looking up, I nodded.

"That's what I thought, but it's—good—to know for sure." I drew in a deep breath and stood. "Hey, I'd better head back. Dr. Grey makes you sing if you're late for her class."

I told him I didn't want it, but the sympathy was still written on his face. He really was a good guy. "Rogue, if you need some time—"

I stopped him with a nonchalant wave. "No worries. I'm fine. Just curious."

He looked troubled for a second as he watched me, but finally his face smoothed out, and he nodded, going back to a teacherish smile that was proof enough for me I'd managed to convince him that everything was alright in my world.

Maybe the acting thing wasn't so far out of my reach, after all.

* * *

I'd been lying about having to get to Dr. Grey's class, but the Logan still running around in my subconscious knew that mentioning her was the best way to distract Mr. Summers, and even though I appreciated the honest answer he gave me, I hadn't wanted to talk about it anymore.

Mission accomplished.

I took a deep breath as I walked under a stand of big maples on the school grounds, enjoying their unique, crisp scent. It had been nearly two weeks since The Incident, as my brain had taken to thinking of it, and my sense of smell was finally fading. Maybe because I'd touched him twice or maybe because I'd been in contact with him for so long, the Loganisms I'd picked up were taking a really long time to fade.

I didn't mind, though. It sort of made me feel like he was still here. Reflexively, I reached up and touched the dog tags hanging around my neck through the cloth of my shirt. When he'd first given them to me, they'd pulled up and met my fingers anytime I raised my hands. A holdover from my contact with Magneto. At this point, though, all I had left of that was a faint tingling under my skin when I got close to them. I might even have imagined it—I couldn't tell for sure.

It was quiet, peaceful. Leaves rustled around me, and a few yards away I could hear a small animal, maybe a woodchuck, burrowing into the grassy weeds that grew away from the path. My sensitized ears told me I was completely alone, but I looked around three times just to make sure. Slipping the fingers of my right hand under the arm band of the tight glove that came half way to my left shoulder, I peeled off the cloth sheath, carefully folded it, and put it in my pocket.

Then I held up my hand.

It's funny, ever since that day in my room with David I'd taken to staring at my hands. They never looked any different. The polish colors of my nails changed sometimes, although usually I went with a simple French manicure. Pale skin, long fingers, neatly tapered, well-cared for nails. They didn't look like bad hands. They didn't look evil or wrong.

I reached up and stroked the skin of my cheek. I'd been doing that ever since that day, too. My skin was soft and smooth. A little cold today from the wind blowing in my face, but touching it, you'd never guess it was deadly.

Once upon a time, my mother used to press her cheek against mine when she hugged me. I hadn't touched anyone in the three weeks my first boyfriend stayed in a coma, but the day we found out he was going to be ok, I got so excited, I tried to hug Mama. I wouldn't have let my skin touch hers. I would have been careful. But when I moved toward her, she'd shied away from me.

It's funny—I have a lot of painful memories swirling in my brain right now, things that are way worse, but that one still hurts me the most. I left that night after they fell asleep. Sometimes, I don't know why I bothered to wait. I guess I wanted to be able to pretend, at least to myself, that they would have tried to stop me.

I let my fingertips trail along the side of my neck as I lowered my hand. For just a few seconds, I imagined it was someone else, someone with calluses on his hands because he never protected his skin with gloves and knuckles that always looked just a tiny bit raw in spite of the healing. I closed my eyes and gave myself just a few seconds to be wistful, to be sad.

When I opened them, I'd locked the emotion away in the back of my mind. I straightened my shoulders.

"Enough," I said to no one in particular.

I'd come out here today for a reason. Since The Incident, I'd had a lot on my mind. Everyone knew what happened when I touched someone, but I don't think anyone realized the _extent_ of what happened.

Right now, I knew more about Logan than he knew about himself. I also knew a whole lot about Magneto, and as a result, about Charles Xavier. Now I had to decide what to do with that knowledge. The distant sound of laughter broke into my thoughts, and I hastily fumbled my glove back onto my hand and arm. I still had a few minutes before they got to me, but there was no point in taking chances.

I glanced up at the sky. It was time for me to go, anyway. I had an appointment with Professor Xavier, and I didn't want to be late.

* * *

I'd only been in the Professor's office twice, but Logan had been there several times. He didn't understand why, but he felt relaxed there, safe. The emotion bled through to me. That, combined with the peace and affection—love, maybe, or as close as he knew how—I had for Charles left from Magneto, made it feel like a weight I didn't even know I'd been carrying lifted from my shoulders as I walked in the door. It was more than a little disconcerting. If I hadn't had so much on my mind, I might have had trouble fighting off a wave of sleepiness.

I hadn't been sleeping well lately. Nightmares will do that to a girl. Thinking of those helped me center my mind on my reason for coming here today. As I closed the door, Professor Xavier looked up from a notepad he was writing on and offered me a grandfatherly smile.

"Rogue, right on time. I was so pleased when you asked to speak with me." More tension left my shoulders at the sound of his voice, and I wondered for a second if the Professor was doing something to my mind to make me relax. He chuckled lightly. "Sorry, but no. Although I suppose I could if you'd like me to."

I glanced up in surprise.

"I'm not intentionally reading your thoughts, Rogue, but that one was particularly loud. Sometimes it's hard to block everything out."

I nodded in understanding. It wasn't quite the same thing, but two weeks with Logan's hearing had taught me that sometimes it really _was_ hard to block things out, even if you didn't want to hear them.

"Now then, not that it isn't a delight just to chat with you, I gathered that you arranged this visit with a specific purpose in mind," he changed the subject abruptly and wheeled forward, coming to my side of the large mahogany desk. He gestured to one of the deep leather chairs and indicated that I should sit.

I was happy to oblige. My legs were shaking.

"Actually, I did have something I wanted to talk to you about. I—how much do you know about my mutation?"

The Professor frowned slightly as he chose his words. "We know it's tied to your skin, that on contact you absorb the life force and characteristics of those you touch."

I nodded. "That's right, but it goes a little further than that." I paused, searching for the right words. "I also get their memories, their thoughts. It's kind of like—a floodgate, maybe—opens up in my mind and then everything they are just starts pouring in, and however much has time to get in my brain before the touching stops is what I have."

The Professor looked a little surprised and a lot curious. "Fascinating. That's much like what I feel when I join a mind to mine completely. It means there's a component of telepathy to your gift. We could—"

I cleared my throat lightly and the Professor broke off, sending me a sheepish smile. "My apologies. Plenty of time for that later. Now, where were you?"

I flashed a smile back to tell him it was fine, but sobered as I tried to recall exactly what I'd wanted to say. I'd spent a lot of time coming up with just the right words, and I didn't want to mess this up just because I was nervous.

The first time Logan's memories poured into me, it made me feel uncomfortable, like I was spying or doing something wrong. As I thought about it, I made a decision, a commitment to myself. Whatever I found out about people touching them, I was going to be _very_ careful about. I wasn't going to share it with anyone unless it was an absolute necessity. I wasn't going to give away their secrets or talk about their feelings. I don't know why, but making that decision had made me feel less like an intruder, less like I was—violating—the person I touched.

I had to make the Professor understand without telling him too much.

"After Magneto touched me, I learned a lot about his past," I spoke carefully, but at my words an odd look passed over the professor's face. Well crap. I didn't want to make him think—

"Rogue, my friendship with Eric was, and is, a very complex part of my life. We disagree on some very important things now, but that doesn't change the past—"

I cut him off with an emphatic shake of my head. "I'm not—you don't have to—Christ," I finally growled, my inability to explain that I'd tried really hard not to look too closely at memories I'd taken that should never have been anything but private bringing my inner Logan to the surface.

Luckily, either the growl or my stammering managed to get the message across, because the Professor relaxed into his chair again. "Ah. I'm sorry for interrupting, Rogue. Please continue." I thought I saw a hint of a flush creep up his cheeks, but I couldn't be sure.

I nodded, grateful, and went back to the difficult task of picking out the right words to use. Hard to believe easy conversation was something I used to take for granted. Thank you, mutant gene. "One of the things I learned from Eric was that, if anyone was going to be able to help me control my mutation it would be you. You have resources and experience that—" I broke off, not sure if I was coming close to the disclosure line in the sand I'd drawn.

Apparently not affected by the stilted way I spoke, Professor Xavier was rubbing his chin, a frown marring his brow. "Rogue, I _do_ have certain resources at my disposal—"

"And experience," I interrupted. "You've worked with a lot of mutants to teach them to control their abilities. You designed Scott's glasses and visor."

This time, the Professor acquiesced gently. "That's true, Rogue, but designing a visor is quite a different—"

"You helped Mystique learn how to control her shape shifting."

The words came out in a rush, and I wanted to cringe when I heard the childish tone of hopefulness in my voice. When Magneto's memories came pouring into me, I'd been shocked by some of the things he'd seen in his life. A tiny part of me even understood why he hated humans so much. Of all of his memories, though, the ones that fascinated _me_ the most were his recollections of how he and Professor Xavier had helped Mystique learn to control her mutation.

It was kind of hard for me to wrap my mind around. The Mystique I'd seen had changed so seamlessly, had such a grasp on her abilities, I couldn't imagine her the way she was in Magneto's memories. Through his mind, I saw her as the child she had been. Totally at the mercy of her gift, she unwillingly changed at random times. If someone with hair that caught her attention walked by, she might all of the sudden realize that her hair had changed to mimic it. And it might take her minutes, hours, of effort to change back.

Without fail, though, whenever she was touched she changed in an instant to look like the person who was touching her. It was a completely involuntary reaction. She was a chameleon. And when the touch ended, she changed back to herself. Just. Like. That.

Until Magneto and Professor Xavier helped her, that is.

I met the Professor's troubled gaze defiantly. "If you can help her control her skin, maybe you can help me control mine the same way."

Silence stretched in response to that statement, and I waited, determined not to break it. I knew without a doubt it was the Logan in me that helped me wait him out. Finally, Professor Xavier sighed and spoke.

"Rogue, you must understand, I'd do anything to help you—"

"But?" I didn't need to be psychic to hear the "but" in that statement.

"When you saw Erik's memories, were you able to see exactly how we helped Mystique? Why she's so loyal to him, perhaps?" His voice was curious, not judgmental or disgusted, but I felt a wave of shame all the same. I knew what he was really asking. And I knew why.

Unable to meet his eyes, I looked down. I _had_ seen. And I knew what the Professor was trying to tell me. The first thing they'd done for Mystique was a large battery of tests to make sure there was nothing biological about her mutation that made it uncontrollable. I wasn't worried about that. I'd deal with the pain and scrutiny that came with the testing, and live with whatever the results were.

If it turned out that I had a chance for control, though, that's where the tricky part came in—the part Professor Xavier didn't think would work. The Professor had helped somewhat by guiding Mystique's mind, helping her focus, but the thing that had finally taught her perfect control over her ability had been hours and hours of practice with Erik.

Clinical trials, yes, but also private ones.

Flashes came back to me of Mystique with Magneto, holding hands for hours while she concentrated on not changing. Magneto surprising her with touches and encouraging her when she backslid and accidentally changed. The two of them making love, watching her face as she fought not to change in spite of the fact that she was losing control of her body. I hadn't been able to tell exactly how long it took from Magneto's memories, but I knew it was months, at least. It easily could have been years of practice, though.

Anyone who tried to practice with me for even a few seconds, even one touch, would definitely end up in the infirmary, and they _could_ end up dead. The Professor was watching me closely, and a second later, I heard his voice in my mind.

"_Then you did see_," his mind whispered. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I admitted aloud, looking up at him. "But I think—well—I think Logan could, would, be—ok. His healing ability—"

The Professor drew back in surprise, and censure was clear in his tone when he addressed me, using his regular voice this time. "You must know how painful the times he's touched you have been. Rogue, I'm surprised that you would even—"

"It wouldn't be helping only me," I interrupted in a rush, desperate to make the Professor understand that I wasn't being entirely selfish. "I—it—could help Logan, too."

He frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I think I can help him find out more about his past. I think I can get to things in his subconscious he doesn't even know are there. You must know how important that is to him." And I could take away some of the nightmares, I added to myself, making sure to keep that thought as quiet as I could. That was part of my gift I didn't want to share with anyone.

"It would be his choice, though," I continued resolutely. "I wouldn't pressure him, and I think if I was trying to control it and you were helping—well—I don't think it would be quite the same as when it just happened accidentally."

"You don't think, or you hope it won't?" It was a fair question, and one the Professor asked gently, if resolutely. As much as I wanted to lie, I didn't. I'd been expecting it and forced myself to be honest.

"I hope it won't, but we'd know after one time, I guess." I admitted. "If it hurts him, though, I mean more than—well—we'll stop. No questions asked."

"And who'll be the judge of how much hurt is too much, Rogue? You know as well as I do—better, perhaps—that Logan feels very protective of you. If he thinks there's a way he can help you, I'd wager he'd willingly put himself through quite a lot to do so."

I nodded. "Any of us, and of the three of us, can stop it at any time. I think that's the best way."

I held his gaze willing him to see into my mind and realize that I'd thought this through. He studied me intensely; eyes that when I came in the room had been patriarchal and open now sharp, delving. I could feel him looking in my mind. The Logan in me, and the echo of Magneto, wanted to shut him out, but I didn't. I let him look. I'd made all my arguments and said all I could to convince him. I felt like a criminal waiting for the jury to pass judgment. Silence stretched into eternity before the Professor finally delivered his verdict.

"I'll have to give this some serious thought, Rogue. We'll revisit the idea once Logan returns, but this isn't a decision to be made lightly by anyone." I tried not to let my disappointment show. I'd tried to keep myself from hoping for a yes, but I hadn't managed it. Before I could thank him for at least agreeing to consider the idea, he continued. "For now, we'll go ahead and begin the testing. It might be a moot point, but—" he warned.

My head jerked up of it's own volition, and I felt a smile start to spread across my face. It still wasn't exactly the ringing yes I'd wanted to hear, but if he was going to take the first step, it meant he at least thought there was a good chance it would work. If he decided to let me do it, that is. Impulsively, I stood up and raced across the room, throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him—exuberant but still careful. He was surprised for a second, but then chuckled and hugged me back.

"I didn't say yes," he warned.

"I know, but you didn't say no, either."

There was a twinkle in his eye. "True. Now, don't you have a chemistry class to get to?"

I glanced at the clock. Crap! If I didn't get my butt in gear, I was going to have to sing. I thanked the Professor again and listened as he told me that he'd make the arrangements for necessary testing to begin. The conversation drew to a close, and I walked toward the door. My hand was on the knob when his voice stopped me.

"Rogue?"

I turned slightly. "Yes, Professor?"

"Two things I wonder if you've considered—first, have you thought of how Logan would feel if he knew just how open his mind is to you when you touch him? The privacy of a mind is, perhaps more important a thing than you understand. And second, when you touch someone, you take on a portion of his or her personality. What might happen if you take on too much of someone else?"

The first concern was something that worried me, too, but the second one I didn't quite get. "I don't under—"

His voice cut me off, explaining. "Is it possible that you could lose yourself if you touch too much, too often?"

All at once I understood what he was getting at, and I felt a chill skitter down my spine. I'd never thought of that, and I didn't have an answer for him. He must have realized I was at a loss, because he continued. "Just some things for you to bear in mind, before you make a rash decision. As I said, there is much to think about, for all of us."

I finally nodded and left the room, my excitement dashed into a distant memory at the Professor's words.

* * *

I made it to Dr. Grey's class and slid into my seat about 12 seconds before the final bell rang. My thoughts were jumbled, and chemistry was at the very bottom of my mental priority list, but I forced myself to focus. I felt a nudge against my shoulder and swiveled my head. Bobby was looking at me, eyes filled with mischief.

"Cutting it close," he whispered.

I forced myself to flash him a smile in return and tried not to feel guilty about being glad that Dr. Grey chose that moment to stand up and get our attention. I just didn't feel like talking today. It was a lecture day, not lab, and I was grateful for that, too. As long as I looked like I was concentrating, I could tune out what was going on around me and think about what I wanted. I could always copy Bobby's notes later.

Keeping my hand moving to look like I was writing, I studied Dr. Grey. It was funny, I didn't really want to like her, but I couldn't all the way dislike her either. Part of me _was_ jealous of Logan's feelings for her, but it was a small part. Seeing from the inside how he thought of her made worrying about Logan's attraction to Dr. Grey seem sort of—unimportant. He was physically attracted to her. He liked her. He respected her. He was even a little intimidated by her brain, although I was pretty sure he wouldn't like me knowing that little gem. But his emotions weren't really engaged. Logan wanted to sleep with Jean Grey, but he cared about me.

Ok, so it was in a vaguely paternal kind of way, but in the _very_ back of his mind, behind massive emotional walls, he wished I were older. I don't know why, but that was enough to make me willing to just relax and let things play out how they would, nursing my not-at-all-secret crush in the privacy of my mind.

Thinking about Logan brought his personality to the front of my brain, and all at once I felt an nearly uncontrollable desire for a cigar and a beer. I wondered for half a second what Dr. Grey would do if I lit up in her classroom, and couldn't quite suppress a strangled half snort.

Bobby swiveled his head and looked at me, the corners of his mouth turned up in the suggestion of a smile.

"What?" he whispered under his breath.

Instead of answering, I shook my head and rolled my eyes a little. Sometimes it's good to be a girl. It's pretty much a universal truth that boys aren't going to understand us all the time, so the majority of them will chalk weird behavior up to our auras of mystery and don't ask questions. Bobby was definitely part of the majority.

He didn't press me, and we both turned our attention back to Dr. Grey.

Class drug on, and I let the monotony of the subject fill my mind. I knew I was going to have to deal with the questions the Professor had raised at some point, but right now, I just needed a break. Careful to keep up the pretense of writing, I let my mind wander.

Professor Xavier liked to call our mutations gifts, but in my case I was pretty sure it was mostly a curse. There was one definite benefit to it, though. You know how when you daydream your mind sometimes picks a random memory? Well, in my case my subconscious had quite a repertoire from which to choose. I never really had a problem identifying which memories, reactions, whatever, are mine and which ones are a result of contact with someone else, but sometimes it takes me a minute to figure out exactly whose memory I'm looking into if I'm not concentrating on any one in particular.

This time I was pretty sure the memory belonged to Magneto. The kitchen was shabby but warm, and I could smell something potato-y cooking in the background. It was cozy, happy. There were candles on a side board, and—

"Rogue, hey, Rogue."

Reality intruded, and I realized that all around me kids were standing up, packing their backpacks. Bobby was on his feet beside me, looking down, clearly amused. I felt a blush steal up my cheeks.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"No worries," he replied with an open smile. "You were a million miles away."

I shrugged. "Nah, more like a few thousand."

He laughed. "Whatever. You are the strangest girl." It wasn't said with any animosity, but I flinched on the inside anyway. Before I could think of something to say next, he was reaching down, picking up my books for me. "So me and John and a couple of the other guys have the basketball court reserved this afternoon. Want to come watch?"

I stood up, and we joined the throng headed out of the classroom. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Dr. Grey sending me a strange look, but I decided to ignore it. There'd been a couple of days of awkwardness before Bobby and I talked about the Mystique thing, but things went back to normal pretty quickly. The last couple of weeks—really since the day Logan left—he'd been doing more and more boyfriend type things. Carrying my books. Opening doors for me. Pulling me along by the hand. Knocking on my door to get me to go down to breakfast with him. He'd even tagged along and helped with my first kitchen shift.

I wasn't positive, but I thought maybe, possibly, I had a boyfriend. Could you get a boyfriend without knowing about it? Wasn't someone supposed to tell you when that happened? I'd decided to stop worrying about it after a couple of days and just go with it—I had bigger fish to fry, as my Mama always said.

Besides, it was kind of—nice. It made me feel normal for the first time since the day the paramedics hauled my first boyfriend out of my room on a stretcher, anyway. I liked Bobby, and my skin made it so I didn't really have to worry about pesky things like how far I wanted to take things and how fast I wanted to go.

Huh. I guess that's two good things about my mutation. What do you know?

"So? Want to?" Bobby's voice interrupted my thoughts—again.

I smiled up at him, trying to be coy but not sure if I pulled it off or not. "Depends."

His brow furrowed. "On what?"

"Are you shirts or skins?"

A wide smile broke across his face, and he wrapped an arm around my waist, slipping a hand in the back pocket of my jeans. That was a first. "Skins."

"How can I pass up an offer like that?"

He actually whistled as he walked us toward the door.

Yeah. I'd definitely managed to secure myself a boyfriend.

Cool. The ghosts of my inner Logan and inner Magneto both winced at the unintentional pun.

Cool.

Iceman.

Yeesh.

But at least I wasn't thinking about complex moral dilemmas anymore.

* * *

I managed to avoid anything resembling responsible adultness for the entire rest of the day. Not an easy task because reality kept shoving itself in my face.

First there was the message one of the younger kids—she was the office assistant for the day—brought out telling me I had a lab appointment with Dr. Grey and the Professor tomorrow at 9 a.m. Then there were the other girls watching the game, giggling and asking me tentative questions about Logan.

It might be Mutant High, but Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters isn't really all that different from any other high school. There's no such thing as a secret. And there's also no such thing as accurate gossip. Everyone knew _something_ had happened. I'd already been a hot topic after the night in Logan's room, but buzz on me increased like 1,000 times after The Incident. It was—finally—dying down, but it wasn't gone yet.

Bobby was my boyfriend.

I really liked Pyro, too.

And Pitor seemed like a good guy.

The girls—well—not so much. Maybe it's because I've got so many men running around my brain, or maybe it's because after eight months hitchhiking across the country on my own, talking about the embarrassing moments section in "Seventeen" just seems a little—insipid. Embarrassing isn't realizing your tampon string is hanging out of your bikini bottom. Embarrassing is letting a 60-year-old man in Milwaukee squeeze your butt through your pants so he'll give you five bucks to _buy_ tampons. Anyway, I feel much more comfortable hanging out with guys—not because they're any more mature, mind you.

They just don't giggle quite as much.

I guess I'm being a little cynical, though. Even if I couldn't figure out how to relate to them again just yet, some of the girls had been very nice. Jubilee invited me to raid her closet, and Kitty offered to help me get around the blocks installed on my school laptop so I could pirate music.

But yeah, the questions about Logan I _was not_ in the mood to answer.

Sometimes growling is a handy trick.

Like I said, I managed to persevere and avoid introspection. Until now.

Lying in bed in my private—not exactly a line of people knocking down the door to room with the girl with killer skin—room, I quickly ran out of innocuous things to think about and found myself stuck listening to my mind run and instant reply of the Professor's warnings.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Stupid valid points. I'd really thought I had all my soul searching about this finished. Apparently not.

I'm not quite as self-centered as your average 17-year-old, but I'm not the picture of mature, saintly, selflessness, either. It sort of surprised me that the thing I was most worried about was not the could-you-lose-yourself question. Right now what _should_ be driving me crazy was wondering how touching someone again—repeatedly—would affect me.

But no.

Instead I was drowning in guilt over the question of Logan's feelings about just how deeply I'd delved into his psyche. Sure I'd picked up a few of his traits, but until I explained the memory thing to the Professor, and in a roundabout way demonstrated it on him by accessing Magneto's memories to help make my case, I'd been the only person who understood the depth of my invasion into Logan's mind.

Of course, I'd told him on the train. _But did he REALLY understand?_ A niggling voice in the back of my head prompted. _If you're going to ask him to do this, you HAVE to make sure he really gets how much of himself he'd be opening up to you. _

I sighed heavily and pulled at my pajamas. Pants and a shirt, they were sheer and soft and clingy but covered me from neck to feet. Not that anyone would be seeing them anytime soon. One disastrous midnight ramble around the mansion was enough for me, thank you very much. But I loved them anyway. They made me feel deliciously feminine. Sophisticated. I didn't know what Dr. Grey slept in, but I could imagine her wearing something like this.

It would take pulling my fingernails off with hot tongs to get me to admit it, but I'd bought them—and a whole bunch of other frivolous nighttime stuff—with Logan in mind. Not that I expected him to see it yet, mind you, but maybe sometime down the road. I'd relaxed a little about keeping every single inch of my skin covered up since that night on Liberty Island, but my regular clothes were still very conservative.

They had to be—it only took one time wearing a three-quarter length sleeve shirt to the common room to realize that the other kids tended to flinch away if more than an inch or so was left bare between the top of my gloves and the bottom of my shirt. I don't think I'd even realized I was basically an island—the only person sitting on one of the huge sofas—until Bobby came over and sat beside me. He'd handed me a blanket before he did, his voice sweet when he said I looked cold.

Cold. On an 80 degree night.

I'd covered up without arguing, and a few minutes later two more warm bodies piled on the sofa with us.

Logan wouldn't have been afraid, though.

Logan would have sprawled out like he owned the place and dug into my popcorn bowl. Of course, some might argue that Logan had—if not a death wish—at least a serious adrenaline addiction.

Thinking about it, I felt my eyes start to prickle a little. Because it turns out I'm actually just as selfish as anyone else. My memories from Logan left not the slightest doubt about how he'd feel about someone knowing his private, intimate thoughts. That would terrify him the way the possibility of three hours in a coma never would.

If Logan really understood what kind of access to his mind I could get when I touched him, he wouldn't come near me for all the cigars in Cuba.

And even though I hadn't known him long, even though he wasn't even here right now, the idea of him treating me like a pariah was the stuff of _my own_ nightmares.

* * *

Crap. Crap. Crappity-crap.

I tore through the upper level of the mansion, racing toward the elevator that would take me to the med lab. I didn't have even half a second to spare glancing at my watch, but I knew I looked like Hell.

I knew this because when I slammed into a girl with short pink hair, big black eyes, and wings, she'd said, "Whoa. Are you ok? You look awful. Can I—," as I set her back on her feet, apologizing but not really stopping my mad dash for the lab.

I'd tossed an turned until the sky started turning a lighter gray this morning. At some point in the sixes, I must have dropped off to sleep, though, because when my eyes—cemented shut with matter—had pried open, light was streaming in my window. I'd groaned and glanced at the clock, but shot of out bed like I'd been touched by a cattle prod when I realized it was 8:55.

I threw on clothes, not bothering to do any of the traditional things like brush my teeth, touch my hair, or look at what I was wearing, and ran out of the room. No way was I going to be late for this. No way. I didn't know how things would turn out, but at the very least I had to show the Professor I was dead serious about doing whatever I had to do to learn control.

Nothing says dumb kid like not caring enough to be some place on time.

Miracle of miracles, the elevator was actually waiting for me when I got to it. I skidded to a halt three millimeters from slamming into the back wall, and hit the button for the first subbasement. By the time the doors dinged open, I was calm. I was cool. I was collected.

I stepped out and nearly fell into the Professor's lap.

"Blarck!" I yelped unintelligibly, my elbow whacking the arm of his chair. "G—good morning, Professor."

I managed to right myself and meet his laughing eyes.

"Rogue. You're looking—well—this morning."

I reached up, self-conscious, and patted my hair. "Uh—"

The quiet whisk of an air-pressure door saved me from answering. I looked up and met the eyes of my savior—Dr. Grey. She, of course, looked perfect.

Wonderful.


	2. Chapter 2: Action

_The self is not something ready-made, but something in continuous formation through choice of action. –John Dewey_

Logan was gone all spring.

Two months after he left, people started wondering when—or if—he was going to come back. If anyone had bothered to ask me, though, I'd have told them point blank not to look for him anytime soon. But no one did. In fact, whenever I was around Logan was very carefully not mentioned.

That was fine with me; I didn't particularly want to talk about him.

Of course, the conversations that suddenly cut off when I came in the room, the sympathetic looks, even the supportive, "You're doing ok, right Rogue? Fitting in? Not lonely?" got annoying fast.

Lucky for all the other residents of Xavier's I'd been born and bred with Southern manners. Instead of giving into temptation and whacking people over the head with my physics book, I pasted on a sweet smile, gritted my teeth, and smoothly changed to subject. My Mama would have been so proud.

Dr. Grey was the worst, probably because I spent so much time those first few weeks sitting my bare ass on her cold lab table, getting poked and prodded and probed. I guess she figured that it was her job to examine my mind as well as my body. She meant well, but there was something about her gentle questions that never failed to raise my hackles.

Possibly because every time she broached the subject she was wearing a Hazmat suit and I was naked. But that's just, you know, a thought.

One thing I hadn't taken into account when I peeked into Magneto's memories was the fact that he had no idea how hard learning to control her mutation must have been on Mystique. The testing was—well, I don't think the English language has actually come up with a word to describe how invasive and humiliating it was. The kind of intense work I did with the Professor every day left me in so much pain, sometimes I thought my head was going to explode. Sometimes, I wished it would.

And I knew it was going to get worse when—if—Logan agreed to help me.

Besides working on my control, I also had school to worry about. I'd spent over half of my junior year on the road, so the fact that I was behind didn't come as a surprise. Xavier's school had some pretty non-traditional classes, but it _was _still a school, and therefore all of its students were required to meet the minimum educational standards for the State of New York.

I'd been on the college prep track back in Meridian, but I still had to work my tail off to catch up on eight months of missed lessons. And what do you know, that meant summer school

When Ms. Munroe sat me down and broke the news—I think they make her do messenger duty in the hope that whatever terrible tidings she's imparting won't seem quite so bad if they're delivered in her cool accent—my first thought was something like, "Summer school? Hasn't God punished me enough with the deadly skin thing? It's just not fair."

Yeah, turns out there's still a little bit of vapid teenager left in me, after all.

Even though I wanted to rail at the Heavens for this last little bit of injustice, I settled for giving Ms. Munroe a resigned nod. And when a couple of the girls caught up with me in the hall outside her office and asked if I wanted to play doubles pool, I pasted a smile on my face and answered with a, "Sounds good," that was downright breezy.

I flirted with Bobby at dinner. Flopped on the couches in the rec. room afterwards, I snitched John's lighter and promised Sooraya she could borrow my black satin gloves.

Later that night, though, when the rest of the student wing was asleep, I found myself getting out of bed and padding to Logan's old room. It wasn't really his—just one of the guest rooms—but it was the best I could do on short notice. I crawled onto the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and cried.

Most of the time, I don't do tears. I kind of like to think of myself as a Steel Magnolia, only, you know, with less poufy hair. Even hysterical, I realized I was acting like an idiot. One, it wasn't like I had anywhere else to go for the summer, anyway. And two, I'd _wanted_ to stay at school, to keep working on my control and wait for Logan. I guess the summer school thing was just the proverbial breast augmentation that broke Dolly Parton's back because no matter how stupid I knew I was acting, I couldn't stop with the tears.

I wanted my Mama and Daddy. I wanted my bedroom with its ridiculously large map and all the junk that once upon a time I'd thought I couldn't live without. I wanted my old school—where I'd been kind of a big shit in a little toilet before David. I wanted my friends and my volleyball uniform and my Hollister bikini and my stupid unicorn paperweight. I even wanted the exhilarated, independent feeling I'd had on some of the good days on the road.

And yeah, I wanted Logan, too. Which I also knew was stupid. Technically, I barely even knew him. But I'm pretty sure bringing a person back from the dead supersedes a lot of technicalities.

I guess my fairy godmother had the night off, because none of the things I wanted Bobbity-Booed into existence. I finally stopped crying, though, which was saying something. For a while I'd been worried the Professor might need to start building an ark. Tears spent, I flopped on to my back and stared at the ceiling.

There were no cracks.

And damnit, I wanted cracks.

The blinds in the room were shut, so I sensed more that saw the sun rising. I figured I'd better get my ass back to my own place before I got caught invading Logan's room again. Rolling off the mattress, I turned to fix the mussed bedclothes and kicked something small and flat.

Suppressing a startled, "Eeep," I pressed a hand to my chest in a gesture so southern, I shouldn't have been allowed to do it without saying something like, "Well bless my soul." Old habits die hard. After I quit with the sobbing, I'd been laying in the quiet for such a long time, the sound of something skittering across the floor took a good six months off of my life.

I almost didn't bother with bending down to pick it up—whatever it was.

Ok, yeah, that's a big fat lie. Hello, I was in Logan's sort of room, ergo, odds were decent that whatever I'd kicked belonged to Logan. There wasn't a chance in Hell I was leaving it on the floor.

I got down on my stomach and wiggled my way halfway under the bed. It took a significant amount of groping, but I hit pay dirt. And pay dust bunnies. My fingers closed around the edge of what felt like—

"A book?" My voice was scratchy from crying and disuse. It was green with gold lettering in some language I couldn't understand and looked like it had seen better days, much better days. That meant it couldn't have come from the library here. Since I knew the only thing Logan made it to the mansion with were the clothes on his back, I would have ruled it being his out if it weren't for the three evenly spaced puncture wounds going through the center of the thing. Those, and the accompanying bloodstains, were a pretty clear signature.

He must have had it with him, maybe in an inside jacket pocket, when Cyclops and Storm pulled him off of the truck and carried him to the jet. If it were important enough for him to carry like that, though, you'd think he would have taken it with him when he left.

Either way, I figured he'd definitely want it back. I tucked the book under my arm and headed back to my room. I was half way there before I realized that I actually felt a little better. Go figure.

* * *

Summer passed.

I hate admitting that I'm ever not right—we won't use that nasty "wrong" word—but it actually wasn't as bad as I'd expected it to be. When I pictured May, June, and July, I'd been thinking it would be a half-embalmed substitute teacher and me in an empty mansion, the monotony broken only by twice daily torture sessions with Dr. Grey and the Professor.

Maybe that's how summer session at a regular private school—where the kids had homes and the teachers took research trips—would be, but I forgot to take into consideration the fact that nothing at Xavier's is entirely normal. Or even close to normal.

The students here can be divided into roughly three categories. First, there are the kids who made their own way here—maybe their parents sent them, maybe they were looking for a sanctuary on their own—for one reason or another, which is by far the minority. Then there are the runaways, fugitives, and recruits the Professor tracked down and physically had brought here—the majority.

And last there's me. I'm an anomaly.

I don't actually think anyone's figured this out yet, but the Professor isn't just picking mutants willy-nilly to bring to the Institute. Whether he goes to their families or finds them on the streets with Cerebro, the kids he brings in almost universally have powers that would be useful to him should they decide to become X-Men.

And I'm not saying I disagree with him. Yes, he might have more money than God, but even he's limited by pesky little things like space constraints and cash flow. And there are _a lot_ of mutants out there. He can't take in every Tom, Dick, and Oh-Look-At-My-Purple-Hairy Mutation. I'm a prime example of that.

I mean, I was on the road for eight months, and I got into some pretty sticky situations. But it wasn't until I hooked up with Logan—a mutant the Professor had a keen interest in—that he actually noticed me. Now that I'm on his radar, I'm pretty sure he's glad he has me around, but no matter how much I could have used the help, X-Men wouldn't have fallen from the sky in a fancy jet to save me from starving to death in an alley.

And that's ok. It's not the Professor's job to save the world.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful to him and all of the X-Men for what they've done to help me. But in the end, I saved me. And Logan saved me. And I'm not likely to forget that anytime ever, which is what makes me an anomaly. The Professor _did_ save everyone else here. He saved John from the foster care system. He saved Bobby from having to tell his parents he was a mutant. He saved Caliban from the Morlocks. He saved Scott, he saved Jean, he saved Pitor, he saved—you get the picture.

I'd like to think I figured all that out on my own, but I'm honest enough with myself to admit that I didn't put it together until after Magneto.

I always sort of figured the Professor knew that I knew he wasn't 100 percent the living saint everyone else thought he was. I mean, he's the most powerful telepath in the world, right? You could have knocked me over with a feather when, one day in his office, I realized that my mind wasn't the open book everyone else's was to him.

Looking back, I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. He'd been getting increasingly frustrated as our sessions went on, but I hadn't pushed him for an explanation, mostly because I didn't want to do anything to rock the boat. Anytime I asked, he always said the same thing.

"Keep your mind open, Rogue. If you close your mind, my exploring it will be more painful."

Let me tell you, knowing that meant my mind was open as wide as I could get it.

Some days I didn't think I could take another iota of hurt. I wouldn't have been able to stand what was happening at all if I hadn't had—literally—decades of pain tolerance built up courtesy of Logan. It didn't make it hurt less, but it let me stay conscious.

Things changed on August first.

It was the day of The Accident—Part Deux.

You know something's wrong in your life when your capital letter days start having sequels.

That day, I woke up excited, and it stayed with me through my morning classes. I was still fidgety with enthusiasm when noon rolled around and I sank into the Professor's brown leather chair. I was in it so often these days it had started to feel like mine. His smile was kind as he came around the desk.

"You seem distracted, Rogue. Do you need a moment before we start?"

I huffed out my breath in a whoosh and forced myself to sit still. "Nope. I'm good."

"Alright then." The Professor rolled forward until our knees were touching. We clasped hands through two pair of gloves, and he met my eyes. "Are you ready?"

He didn't say, "Are you ready for the pain?" But that's what he was really asking. I clenched my teeth and tightened my stomach muscles, a couple of tricks I'd picked up along the way. Usually I had to give myself a mental pep talk before I gave him the all clear to start, but not today. I nodded. "Ready."

It started with a dull headache at the first touch of his mind. From experience, I knew it would grow the longer he stayed in contact. I did what he'd told me to and pictured a wide open door. I don't know if that was helping any because, as usual, I didn't feel anything but hurt, but I was willing to try.

Open door. Open door. Open door. Open door. Open door. Open door.

I kept the chant in the foreground while the back of my mind wandered, trying to distract itself from the pressure building inside my skull.

Logan was coming back. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this week or next week or the week after. But instinct told me that with summer ending, he'd be back. Like an animal going to a burrow for the winter.He wasn't an animal, no matter what he thought, but he did operate on instinct. Spring and summer were for hunting, traveling, _doing. _Fall and winter were for finding a place and staying close to it. This year at least, his place was going to be here.

_With me_.

The thought jumped out of the dark recesses of my mind where I'd pushed it to ignore and into the front of my conscious. I didn't stop to consider. I slammed my mind closed like a rattrap to cut off that line of thought. No one but me was seeing that childish—

Half a heart beat later, I heard screaming. The Professor flailed backwards. He might have toppled his chair, but I was too unconscious to notice.

* * *

I woke up, gasping and disoriented, in the infirmary.

It's never a good thing to wake up in the infirmary.

Before I could panic—how had I gotten here? Why were wires attached to my head? Where was my shirt? Who decided it would be a good idea to save money by keeping it like a meat locker in here? Firm hands landed on my shoulders.

"Calm down, Rogue. You're all right. Jean, she's awake."

Scott. I relaxed—slightly. When he saw that I wasn't going to struggle, he relaxed his grip and slowly moved his hands off of me.

"Rogue, I'm so sorry." I swiveled my head to the side and met the Professor's worried gaze.

"I—what—" I couldn't seem to make my mouth work. I had about 12 million questions, but none of them were formulating the right way. Dr. Grey stepping up to the other side of the lab table distracted me, and I turned my head that way. She was filling a hypodermic needle with something clear. "Wh-what are you giving me?"

She gave me a small smile. "Just something for the pain, Sweetie."

"P-pain?"

A trio of glances passed above my head before Dr. Grey spoke again.

"Your head isn't hurting?"

I thought about that for a second. "Not really, no. I'm a little muzzy, but nothing actually hurts. Well, except my wrist." I glanced down and noticed I was wearing a brace. Confused and all at once unnerved, I used my other hand to push up on the lab table. This time Scott let me. "What happened?"

The shared look again. I was getting more than a little tired of being left out of whatever secret was floating around the room, and I was about to tell them that, when the Professor cleared his throat. Guess he'd drawn the short straw during the mental discussion and had to be the one to talk. "It's rather complicated, but strictly speaking, you should be dead."

My mouth dropped open. "D-dead?"

He nodded, grim.

"It was the only way, Rogue," Scott interjected. "You had him trapped in your mind. He had to blast his way out, or your gift would have killed—"

"My gift? You _touched_ my skin?" My voice rose involuntarily on the last word as anger overtook confusion. "How could you do that You know—" I broke off, shaking my head and pushing Scott away when he reached out to stop me from jumping off the table.

"Wait. Just calm—"

"My dear, you must understand, I didn't—"

"Rogue, get back on the table. You shouldn't be—"

Everyone was talking at once, and my head swam a little when my bare feet hit the cold floor. I was clutching the sheet I figured Dr. Grey had covered me up with to my chest, and I felt the sticky pull of electrodes popping off my temples as I jerked away. She and Scott both tried to grab me, but my back was to them and even wearing gloves and long sleeves they shied away from that much bare skin.

I was angry, confused, and scared as I tried to get my bearings, and all at once the headache I hadn't had before came out of left field run into my skull like a Louisville Slugger knocking one out of the park.

I took a few lurching steps toward the door, reaching out with one hand to hit the panel that would open it. Before I could, a pneumatic hiss sounded, and when I forced my eyes up, I realized I must have been worse off than I thought.

I was hallucinating.

But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, because the hallucination in front of me was 6'4" of solid muscle encased in denim and cotton and was the best, most wonderful, most comforting thing I ever could have seen. Or smelled. Who knew hallucinations could smell like leather and cigars? Learn something new every day.

Even though I knew it wasn't real, I felt myself speaking. Or trying to—the sound that came out sounded my like a cross between a strangled sob and a gasp.

"Lo-gan."

"What _the fuck_ is going on here?"

Then I fainted.

Again.

So much for being a Steal Magnolia.


	3. Chapter 3: Reaction

Author's Note: Thank you SO much for all the awesome feedback. It's been really helpful in letting me know where to go with the story and how to shape the characters. Hope you like this chapter—Logan is much the star this time!

_For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. _–Newton's Third Law of Motion

_Floating._

_Floooating._

_Float. Float. Float._

_On leather and cigar scented clouds. _

_God's a smart guy to make clouds like that._

"Jesus, Logan, put her down. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

_Talking. Clouds don't talk._

_Then growling. Clouds don't growl._

_Huh. Did God forget to tell the clouds they're supposed to be quiet?_

"Where the Hell do you suggest I put her, One Eye?"

_No. No. No. Don't put me anywhere. Here is nice. Really. I don't need to be put anywhere else. I'm good. _

"Oh I don't know. We're in an infirmary, so maybe one of the _gurneys_. Just a thought."

"You ever been on one of those things? They're fucking cold."

_That's right, cloud. You tell him. Gurneys are bad. _

"Logan, I appreciate that this situation has come as a bit of a surprise, but please consider your language—"

_More growling, and now the clouds are squeezing me and that kind of hurts, and—_

"Now isn't the time, Ch—"

"Logan, watch her arm!"

_Sudden spin. Oh boy. That's not good. Maybe I'd better—_

"Jeannie, just—"

_Huh? Jeannie?_

_Oh, yeah. Crashing wave of reality._

_Not clouds._

_Great._

_Stupid, stupid reality._

I forced my eyelids to open into slits. When the overhead fluorescent lighting didn't shoot lasers of fire into my brain, I decided to chance opening them a little more. It was totally worth the effort. Either my hallucination of Logan appearing in the doorway hadn't been a hallucination at all, or I was still having it. Whichever was ok with me because it meant that Logan—either real or imaginary—was cradling me against his chest like he never planned to put me down.

Before I could really start reveling in the sensation, now that I was awake and all, Dr. Grey's voice, husky and soothing, horned its way into my reveling. Since I'm not a teenage boy, I can safely say Dr. Grey's voice is pretty much the last thing I've ever wanted horning in on me.

"Logan, please. I know this seems—unusual—but you need to put Rogue down. She's had a traumatic afternoon, and I want to help her."

The arms holding me softened, tension easing, and I felt Logan take a step toward Dr. Grey. That was enough to convince me I wasn't in La La Land anymore—no way would one of my hallucinations respond to her like that. Since I wasn't interested in ending up back on a lab table, I squirmed to get Logan's attention before he fell too deep into a red-hair induced trance.

He looked down at me, and frowned, eyebrows furrowing. "What do you think you're doing, Kid?"

The growly annoyance in his voice made me smile in spite of my headache. It's good to know some things never change.

"Hey, Sugar, long time no see. Want to let me down?"

Logan snorted. "Think you can stay out of trouble if I do?"

For half a second, I really thought about saying no. Now that I was awake, I was enjoying the feel of Logan's voice rumbling through his chest. Plus the cotton of his t-shirt was way soft against my cheek, and the arms of his jacket were cool where they touched my bare—

I stiffened like someone shoved a fireplace poker up my butt. "Holy crap! Put me down! Are you trying to kill yourself? I'm not wearing a shirt, and—"

A sardonic smirk and chuckle interrupted my—carefully, I didn't want to put him into a coma—squirming tirade. "Kind of hard not to notice that, Kid."

Heat raced up my cheeks and curled low in my stomach, and my lips sealed shut. I tried to come up with a witty response, but the blush apparently burned through all my clever comebacks. I was thinking about pretending to pass out again—can't be humiliated if you're unconscious—when sounds of disapproval saved me from having to decide what to do.

Oh yeah. I forgot about the Three Stooges—One-Eye, Red, and Wheels. Well great. Everyone was getting a look at my goodies today. And not to brag or anything, but over the past few months what with regular meals and all, God has been kind. Particularly when assisted by high quality pushup lingerie. Of course, the day everyone was staring at me almost bare-chested, I'd worn a freaking sports bra. Probably now wouldn't be a good time to try to convince them I really didn't have the chest of a 12-year-old girl, though.

Maybe I could work that into the conversation later. Something like, "Hey, Scott, interesting class today. And look, I have cleavage. Really, check it out." Yeah, I don't think so.

Logan didn't seem to care that he was on the ass-end of a three sets of dirty looks. He shouldered past Scott to the gurney. Had I still been hallucinating, he would have laid me gently on my back, brushed the hair from my face, and kissed me, damn the audience and the life sucking skin. Big surprise, reality didn't quite live up to the fantasy.

Instead, he sidled up to the table and dumped me unceremoniously on my ass on it. And he was right. It was fucking cold. Dr. Grey's latex covered hands on my shoulders and velvet-over-steel voice stopped me from jumping down to the floor again.

"Not so fast, young lady."

There is nothing in the world I hate quite so much as being called young lady. I would have told her that, too, loudly and accompanied by some very unladylike hand gestures if I hadn't been busy staring at Scott and Logan, who'd apparently decided now would be a good time to start a good, old fashioned, Georgia Pissing Contest.

No surprise there. They'd been in the same room for a good five minutes already.

"Don't get your panties in a yank, One-Eye; it was a joke."

"A tasteless joke. Rogue is a child, a minor, and from where I'm standing it looked like you were ogling—"

The hairs on the back of my neck went up. Time out. A minor I was, but a child? I don't think so. Before I could protest the semantics of the conversation, Logan's growl interrupted me.

"Careful, Scooter. You're going to hurt my feelings. I don't make it a habit of _ogling_ little girls."

_Little girl? _Ok, that was enough of—

"Scott, Logan!" The Professor's voice was sharp, and miracle of miracles, both men shut up. "If you can't refrain from causing a disturbance, please see yourselves out."

Tense silence filled the room for a long heartbeat before both men nodded. Neither one looked particularly gracious about it, but the action and ensuing quiet satisfied the Professor, who shot them a last warning look before he turned to me.

When his penetrating blue eyes landed on mine, I felt an intense urge to ask Logan to pick me back up. Since he was still looking a little cranky, and since I was still mad at him for calling me a little girl, I kept my mouth shut. Instead I tried to channel what was left of my inner Wolverine and employed a battle strategy I was pretty sure he'd left in my brain: When you're outnumbered, surrounded, and out of options, attack.

I met the Professor's eyes head on, straightened my shoulders and made my voice flat and cold. "You touched my skin. I trusted you, and you touched me. You know how I felt about my mutation, what it does to me. And you still touched me."

He didn't flinch, didn't blink, but his eyes softened, and all at once I could see—sympathy—in his face and sadness. That didn't make sense, at least, it wasn't quite the reaction I'd been expecting.

"Rogue—"

"No, Professor. I could have killed you. Easily. And then I'd have had to live with that. How you could willfully disregard my wishes and—"

"Rogue, I _didn't_ touch you."

My mouth closed with a snap.

Oh that was just great. I'd made a fool—

"Wait a second. You said I was here because you had to blast your way out of my mind. Because my mutation—"

"That's true."

"Then you touched me!"

"No, my dear. I didn't come into contact with your skin at all." He watched me like he was waiting for me to understand, but it wasn't happening. I've never been good at jigsaw puzzles.

Silence stretched, and when it didn't seem like the Professor was going to shed any light on the problem, my confusion started to morph into frustration. Whatever game he was playing with the whole not just saying what he meant thing, I was tired of it. Something had happened, _was happening_. Something bad. I got that—no grass growing here. But I couldn't wrap my mind around what exactly it was. I felt more than saw Logan shift closer to me, but I wasn't in the mood to be comforted. I shoved him away with a shoulder to his middle—ok, that's I lie—I _tried_ to shove him. Logan isn't exactly a lightweight, and when he doesn't want to move, he's pretty much a statue. Since I couldn't push him away from me, I did the next best thing and leaned my head against his hip.

When he ran a hand down the back of my hair, I felt tears prickling my eyes. Damnit. I'd _known _that was going to happen. Stupid Logan and his stupid silent support. Had he never seen "Grease?" Did he not get that letting the other side see you cry was a _defeat_? The idea of tears in front of Dr. Grey made me mad—thank you, Lord—and I fisted them away. Patience used up, I narrowed my eyes at the Professor, defiant.

"What are you talking about? You can't have it both ways. Pick a story and stick with it, Charles." Huh. Little British in my accent there. Thank you, Magneto.

The Professor's voice was modulated, soothing. "I'm not sure what happened, but while I was in your mind, your mutation—activated—and tried to trap me. I've never experienced actual physical contact with you, but from what you've said in describing the connection that forms when you use your gift tactilely, the sensations were identical."

"Wait, so you're saying I psychically, not physically—touched—you?"

The Professor nodded.

I bit my lip and thought for a minute. When I spoke I started slow, but I couldn't keep the excitement out of my voice. "So that's a good thing, right. It means my gift is in my head, not only my skin. It means I should be able to learn how to control—"

The Professor was looking dour again and shaking his head.

"Rogue, now that this form of your gift has manifested itself you have to consider the possibilities—"

I couldn't help it. I tuned the Professor out and looked up at Logan. A goofy smile the size of Rhode Island was stretching across my face, but I didn't care. It wasn't only my skin. It was going to work. I was going to learn to control it. Yeah, it was going to hurt. But I could do it. I could really—

"Rogue, listen to me."

The Professor's terse order penetrated the happy fog in my mind and pulled me back to reality. Stupid reality.

"As I was saying, now that your gift has manifested psychically, you have to consider the possibility that it will do so again."

I—huh? "Huh?"

"Think about this very carefully, Rogue. Did you intentionally use your gift on my mind?"

I lurched back, shocked. "I—no! I would never do that, Professor."

His nod was solemn. "I know you wouldn't. And if it happened unintentionally once, we have to consider that it might happen unintentionally again."

It took me a minute to process his words, but when I did horror rose in my stomach as the implications sank into my brain.

I felt myself shaking my head. "No. No. That's not possible. I don't have any of your gifts. I don't even have any of your memories or feel you in my head at all. You're wrong. You're—"

"I used the full force of my power to disengage with you. Apparently that burned through any of my memories and abilities you may have absorbed, but if it had been anyone else, Rogue."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to finish the sentence. I knew. If it had been anyone else, they would have been dead.

Dead.

Hysterical giggles bubbled up in my throat, and I started rocking back and forth.

This was, apparently, somewhat disturbing to my audience, because concerned voices came at me in a barrage. I ignored them. The giggles turned into chuckles, which transitioned quickly into full on guffaws.

Funny word, guffaw.

That just made me laugh harder.

There was commotion around me, and someone with a glove on tried to hold my hand. I jerked away, and the wild motion caused my fingertips to brush skin. A cheek. Scott. And boy did he like the way Jean looked in that lab coat. Of course, he didn't like that Logan was—

"Scott! Are you ok?"

Oh can it, Jeanie. He's fine. It was just a second. Of course, he appreciates you rushing to his side.

Sharp look from the Professor.

Oops? Did I say that out loud?

Oh wait, no. He's psychic.

"Give me all the dirty looks you want. We both know it's true."

Uh oh. That I _did _say out loud. And isn't that funny, too. What comes after a guffaw?

Hands like iron on my upper arms, hot through the sheet. One hard shake.

"Get a hold of yourself, Kid."

"I guess I _am_ the only one who can do it, right Sugar?" Ha, ha, more laughter. God, who knew I was such a comedian.

"Logan, she's hysterical. I need to sedate her—"

"Wouldn't get to close, Dr. Grey. I know it makes you nervous to be around me when I'm showing skin and you aren't all suited up."

I was gratified to see her blush. "Rogue, there's no need to be cruel. I'm only trying to—"

Then Charles, sounding like every disappointed parent I'd ever heard. "We know you're under a great deal of stress, but that doesn't excuse behavior—"

And just like that, I'd had enough. Of everything. I forced my serene face—the one my Aunt Betty wore the time her new, second generation Vietnamese neighbor asked if anyone could join the Daughters of the American Revolution or if there were rules—into place. "You're right, and I'm sorry." I looked at Dr. Grey again. "Just do what you have to do and get me out of here. I want to go to my room." I slumped on to the table, and sealed my lips shut.

"Rogue—"

"No. I'm fine. I'm sorry I touched you, Mr. Summers. But could you just," I motioned with a vague wave of my hand toward the door.

"I, well, yeah. No harm, no foul, ok? And Professor, you can head on up, too."

"My dear, you've had a difficult afternoon. Perhaps I should stay and see you to your—"

"I'll get her upstairs—" Logan growled from a couple steps away. Bizarrely, I'd actually sort of forgotten he was in the room. Maybe it was a good thing I was in the infirmary. Brain damage was looking more and more likely.

"No," I interrupted him. The look he shot me said he wasn't in the mood for arguing, but since I was even less in the mood for answering questions, I straightened my shoulders. "Just—go get settled in or something. I'll catch up with you later. I'm not in the mood for company right now, Logan."

A flash of something—hurt, maybe, no way—tightened his features for half a second, but he sent me a terse nod.

Moving in a herd, they left with a pneumatic swish of the doors. The room, Praise Jesus, was all at once silent and cool around me. I let my eyes drift closed and tried not to think.

"Ok, Marie, why don't you lie back and let me re-attach these electrodes? You look fine, and the readings I got before you woke up seemed normal, but I want to go a little deeper. Have you ever had a CT scan?"

Well crap. I forgot about Dr. Grey. Clearly, I praised too soon.

I bit back a sigh.

"Nope. What do you need me to do? I'm all yours."

Dr. Grey patted my hand—briefly—and smiled. "Excellent. I'm glad you're feeling more cooperative now. I can imagine you were a little upset earlier, so why don't we just agree to forget the whole last half hour?"

Right. She can imagine. Perfect Jean Grey. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

She was smiling and looking so sincere, though, that I couldn't bring myself to stick my tongue out at her. Ok, that's a lie. I so could have. But I didn't. I didn't even roll my eyes. But I did flip her off under the sheet at the same time I smiled back and nodded, the picture of grateful agreeability. It seemed like the cooperative thing to do.

I spent two and a half hours in the infirmary before Dr. Grey pronounced me healthy.

"I don't understand it," she finally announced with a shake of her head. "I've seen the results of the Professor using his power against someone's mind. And the blast he sent out at you was strong enough that it knocked me on my ass—er—rear all the way down here."

I shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. I feel fine." I paused and added, trying to be helpful. "I still have a headache."

She waved a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. "A headache. You should be a vegetable, Rogue."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm still me."

This earned me a scolding look, which I chose to ignore.

Looking at the pictures of my brain on the view screen in front of her, Dr. Grey frowned. "The only thing abnormal at all is this area. It looks like there was some sort of blunt force trauma, but—"

Ok, we'd had this same conversation three times now. I couldn't do it again. "Dr. Grey, I know you're just trying to help, but if you think I'm ok, would it be alright if I went to my room now. I'm really, really tired."

A frown marred the perfection of her features for half a second, but she nodded. "Alright—I've done all the testing I can here, anyway. But if I need you—"

"I'm just a psychic yell away."

Cue uncomfortable pause.

"I—why don't you make sure to keep your cell phone with you? Just until we get the mental aspect of your gift a little more under control."

Oh good. That's a reminder I needed.

"Yeah. Of course. Don't know what I was thinking." I hopped off the table. "So, my clothes?"

By the time I was dressed and walking out of the lab, I was feeling more than a little claustrophobic. The tunnels under the mansion are cool, but I'll never understand how Dr. Grey spends so much time in them. I require regular doses of natural light to avoid losing my mind.

My eyes were affixed firmly to my feet—avoid eye contact with Dr. Grey so she doesn't see my pupils and think of another weird and/or painful test to run—when I pushed the button to open the door. They stayed there as I stepped into the hall, and I was thinking that a rousing game of "Step on a Crack, Break Your Mother's Back," was just what the doctor ordered to keep any pesky deep thoughts from swimming to the surface on the way to my room, when a voice beside my ear scared 10 years off of my life.

"How you feeling, Kid?"

"Gah!" I screamed like a girl and whirled around.

Logan was leaning against the wall, arms folded, looking like he owned the place.

"Jeeze, make a noise, would you?"

"I did. You screamed. Like a girl."

"A little girl?" I muttered, cranky, under my breath.

"Nah. More like a teenager with a bad attitude."

Well, crap. Stupid senses. I rolled my eyes and shot Logan a dirty look. "What are you doing skulking around down here, anyway? I thought you were going to get settled in."

He shrugged. "Decided to settle in here."

"Have you been waiting here the entire time?" I asked, voice incredulous.

"It was that or spend a couple hours torturing Summers."

I shot him a look, and his smirk widened into an almost-smile. Be still my heart.

"Yeah. That would have been fun, too, but Chuck didn't seem like he was in the mood, so I figured I'd just hang around and wait for you."

I was touched. I knew he wasn't a huge fan of tight spaces. I was pretty sure the tunnels creeped him out even more than they did me. Actually, I kind of thought they creeped me out _because _of him. I wanted to tell him how much the fact that he'd stayed meant to me, but I settled for offering a heinously lame, "Thanks. That's really—nice," and trying to keep all traces of adoration out of my voice.

He straightened away from the wall and fell into step beside me. Our shoulders brushed as he hit the elevator call button. Be still my heart.

"Yeah, well. You've got some explaining to do."

My heart, which only moments ago had been dangerously close to exploding out of my chest, sank. I raised and involuntary hand to my temple and rubbed my head while I searched for words that wouldn't make me sound like an ungrateful little witch.

"It's great that you waited for me, but do you think we could just—table it for now? I really don't want to talk about it, Logan."

Heartbeat of silence, during which I felt the same weird hurt-pissed vibe from the lab. Man. I was screwing this up. I decided to try again. "I—look—I will explain. I need to explain. I mean, I want to explain." I chanced a glance up, but Logan wasn't looking particularly moved by my speech. "To you, I mean," I added in a rush, "but just not right now. Not _today_."

"Marie—"

"It's been—a long summer," I interrupted him. "And you're back now, and I could really, really use a couple of hours of feeling like a normal person. I—can't do that—with anyone else."

This time the silence was longer. Just as I was thinking I was going to have to do something about it—probably give in and pour my heart out to Mr. Sex-on-Legs-but-Nosey-As-Hell—I felt an arm snake its way around my shoulders.

A deep sigh of relief burst out of my chest as Logan pulled me into the same kind of half hug he'd given me that day on the train. I thought I felt his lips touch the top of my head, but if they did they were gone so fast I couldn't be sure.

Then he was stepping away from me, pulling a cigar out of an inner jacket pocket.

"So, you gonna help me unload my bike?"

A smile stretched across my face. "Your bike? From the bitching going on for the last few months, it's not _your _bike?"

Logan let out a slow chuckle. "Bitching, huh? Tell me more about that."

The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside the car.

I clicked my tongue. "Not back a whole day and already you're poking the bear."

"You complaining?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Not a bit." I replied, my voice shaking just a little with emotion.

Logan didn't comment on the shake. "Good." He reached out a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Now about the bitching?"

And for just a second, everything was right in my world again.


	4. Chapter 4: Information

Title: Jailers of Fate Part Four – Information

Author: CC62827

Summary: Set after X1, Logan returns to the mansion. My somewhat AU version of what happens next.

Word Count: 4,000ish

Notes: So you might notice from here on in that I'm taking random characters from the comic 'verse and making them my own. Their character history isn't necessarily going to match up with cannon, just so you know. I decided that was allowed.

* * *

"Heads up."

The air left my lungs in a whoosh as one of the bike's saddlebags smacked into my chest. I flailed and caught it before it hit the ground. "Hey! Are you trying to kill me?" I shot Logan a dirty look over the motorcycle seat. "This thing is heavy."

He shrugged. "I said 'heads up.'"

"Yeah, well, you should have said, 'Brace yourself, Marie, I'm about to throw a bag of bricks at you.'"

"Reflexes, Kid. Didn't you just get finished telling me how 'great' you're doing in self-defense?"

I rolled my eyes. "They don't throw rocks at your head in self-defense class, Logan."

"They should. Sounds like you have a shitty teacher."

"My teacher has a bionic arm and can channel heat and light into enhanced strength."

"Like I said, shitty. Are you going to help me carry my bags up, or did you want to hang around the garage all day?"

"You are such a jerk." I informed him, but I couldn't keep the hint of a smile off of my face. Man, it was good to have Logan back. "It's a good thing I like you. Do you even remember where your room is?"

He raised an eyebrow and shot me a grin that was just this side of wicked. "I think I can track down a bed, Kid."

Oh boy.

Was it possible to have a heart attack at age 17?

Before I could succumb to cardiac arrest at the idea of Logan bed hunting in the mansion, he was talking again.

"So besides self-dense—which I'm not too impressed with so far—what have they been teaching you around here?"

I shrugged. "Pretty much the usual, English, lot of science and math, French is a pain in my butt."

"French?"

"State of New York has a foreign language requirement. Once I get caught up on all my boring core stuff, I'm slated to start the Superhero track, though, so that should be fun."

"The Super—what the Hell is that?" He reached out and punched the elevator button.

"It's not _really_ called that, but it's all the cool stuff you might need to know if you want to grow up and be an X-Man. Computer systems, martial arts, weapons training..." I trailed off into silence. Logan's face had gone blank, but by the intensity of his stare, I figured the elevator doors should thank their makers that he didn't have laser blast vision like Mr. Summers. "Logan?"

My voice was tentative but seemed to snap him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into.

"You thought about if that's really what you want, Kid?"

Ok, confusion. "Um—not to sound dense or anything, but you're going to have to give me a little more than that. Thought about what?"

"X-Man classes. That what you want? To be an X-Man?"

The doors swooshed open, buying to a few seconds of think time. Thank you, doors.

"Well," I started slowly once we started rising. "I'm not committing myself to anything yet, but after Magneto—I mean, I think I'd like to do something to—help people—and mutants." There was a heartbeat of silence. "Of course, it's not going to matter if I don't figure out how to pass French," I finished, reverting back to my old friend sarcasm.

Logan looked hard at me for a second, then without warning reached out and pushed my hair behind shoulders. "Make you a deal. I'll help you with French, if you do an hour a day of self-defense with me. And you hold off for awhile on deciding about the Superhero shit."

I was speechless, not something that happens often. "Wait a second, you speak French?" And you _want_ to commit to spending an hour of your time with me a day without me having to beg? I didn't say that part out loud, but the choir of angels in my head broke into the "Hallelujah Chorus."

Logan grunted. "I'm a deep well, Kid."

I shook my head. "This has been the strangest day."

Logan didn't seem inclined to dignify that with a response. Right about then the elevator stopped on the main floor, anyway, and we stepped out of the car. We could have gone down the classroom hall to another elevator that would have taken us up to the residential floors, but since neither one of us was a huge fan of closed spaces, we took the scenic route by unspoken mutual agreement.

Since I was way too wired to deal with silence—even comfortable silence—I started babbling as we walked through the main foyer to the stairs. What can I say? It's my M.O.

"So your timing is good. The Rangers are playing their upstate pre-season exhibition next weekend.

Logan stopped so suddenly, I almost plowed into him.

"The Rangers," he said voice dripping with disgust. "Kid, didn't you learn anything from having me in your head?"

I snorted. "Yup. I learned to be stupidly excited about the start of the hockey season."

"It's a good thing I came back when I did." He reached out and pulled the ends of my hair. "First, there's _nothing_ stupid about hockey season. And second, Christ. The Rangers," he repeated.

"Hands off the merchandise." I half-heartedly slapped his hand away and laughed. "_Anyway_, if you think you can compromise your principles enough, the Professor said he had a couple of tickets I could—Oh, hey, Bobby!"

Yeah, no, my voice wasn't _at all_ shrill. Holy crap, where had Bobby come from? Wherever he'd been hiding, he was here now, standing between Logan and I and the stairs. Without really thinking about it, I took a half step forward so I was between he and Logan. Just, you know, in case.

I took a heavy swallow because choking on my own spit would definitely be a bad thing and pasted a bright smile on my face. "I didn't see you there." I paused for breath and glanced reflexively at the clock. "Shouldn't you be at dinner?"

Bobby's expression was half pissed off, half confused, half hurt, and half worried. Of course, that made four halves, which because I was making a B-plus in advanced trigonometry, I knew wouldn't work, but still—

Bobby's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Yeah, I should. Except I was looking for you. We were supposed to go together, remember?"

I closed my eyes and thunked the heal of my hand against my forehead. He was right. We never had fried stuff at the mansion, but the cook was making an exception. It was fried chicken night, and I'd totally been looking forward to it. Bobby and I were going to take our food out on the lawn and make a Southern-style picnic out of it. He'd suggested it a couple of nights ago when I was talking about chicken night making me homesick. At the time, I'd thought it was a totally sweet and romantic idea.

Sometimes, I am such a heinous bitch.

"Bobby, I'm so sorry," I said. "I completely forgot."

"Yeah. Looks like." He shook his head and glanced at Logan. "So I'm guessing you're Wolverine? Heard a lot about you, but we didn't get to meet last time you were here."

Logan had been standing quiet behind me, but he moved to my side. I was a little surprised when he held out a hand. It almost would have been polite—if he'd have managed to wipe the half-smirk off his face. "Logan."

Bobby stepped forward, jaw clenched. "Bobby Drake—you can call me Iceman." He took Logan's hand.

Huh. Well that actually seemed pretty civil. Who would have thought—

"Neat trick, Iceman." Logan said, voice dry. I followed his gaze to their clasped hands and saw Bobby's fingers turning white.

"Hey! Bobby! Stop it!"

At the sound of my voice, they broke apart.

Bobby looked defiant. Logan mostly looked amused. Neither one of them seemed particularly apologetic.

"That was really rude," I said, shooting a frown at my boyfriend. "Just because you're mad at me, doesn't mean you have to—"

"Don't worry about it, Kid." Logan interrupted. He sent a half-feral grin Bobby's way. "Next time remind me to show you what I can do with my hands."

"Logan!" I turned to glare at him. "What's the matter with you two?"

"They're men, dear. They can't help but act like idiots." I whirled around in surprise at the sound of Ms. Munroe's voice. She glided into the foyer on silent footsteps and smiled at me. "You'll come to expect it, eventually."

"Storm. Good to know you've maintained your high opinion of me." Logan said with a dry nod.

Ms. Munroe just smiled back at him. It really wasn't fair that when God was giving out breasts _and_ serenity, she got more than her fair share of both.

"Welcome back, Logan. It's good to see you." She turned back to me. "Jean asked me to check on you. I was headed for your room. I _expected_ to find you resting."

"I—yeah—that was the plan. But I wanted to help Logan get his stuff in and show him to his room."

Ms. Munroe's face slid into a frown that managed to be serene and disapproving at the same time, a neat trick. "Rogue, if she'd known you weren't going to take care of yourself, Jean would have kept you in the infirmary this afternoon. Maybe we should head back there?"

Oh for the love of God. Not the infirmary again. I'd rather spend eternity standing between Logan and Bobby, Logan and Scott, even. Before I could assure her I _didn't_ need to be strapped to a bed, Bobby's voice interrupted. This time worry obscured everything else in his voice, and I felt like an even bigger heel. Great.

"The infirmary? Rogue, are you ok?"

"Yeah. It was nothing, really. I was working with the Professor, and there was an accident. No big deal."

Bobby stepped toward me. He took a second to check out my outfit and make sure I was totally covered, then put his arm around my waist and pulled me toward him.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were hurt. I thought you—" He broke off. "Well, anyway. It doesn't matter. Do you need help getting upstairs? Lets take the elevator—"

Oh Lord. I resisted the urge to step away from him.

"No. Look, Bobby. I'm fine. Really." I threw a glance at Logan that I hoped was beseeching, but his face was a closed book. "I got all checked out, and I'm good to go."

"If Dr. Grey thinks you need to rest—" Bobby's voice was firm to the point of being parental, and that I didn't like one bit. Concerned boyfriend is fine. Telling me what to do is not. I stepped decisively away from him.

"I'll rest this evening. Right now I'm hungry, and I still need to help Logan."

"I think I can take it from here, Kid." Logan interrupted me. He reached out an plucked the saddle bag—I'd forgotten it was draped over my arm—out of my hands.

"Good," Ms. Munroe said with a nod. "Rogue, by all means get something to eat, but then I expect you to go to your room."

"But Logan doesn't know where his—"

"Where is it in relation to your room?" He asked.

I shook my head a little, confused. "It's in the same wing at the opposite end of the corridor. Last door in the hallway. But you don't know where _my_ room is, either. So I don't see how that's—"

Logan leaned forward, he face coming close to my hair, and he breathed deeply. "No worries, Kid." His nostrils flared. "I'll find it from here. Find me when you're feeling up to it and we'll figure out the French thing. Storm, fun as always, and Iceman, I'll be seeing you around, I'm sure."

And just like that, he hit the stairs and was gone. I turned to Bobby and Storm, who were looking at me with identical expressions of patronizing concern. It would have been funny if they hadn't been directed at me.

"Are you sure you don't need help walking to the cafeteria?" Bobby asked.

"No," I said trying to be emphatic but not angry. I'm not sure I pulled it off, though.

Ms. Munroe clucked her tongue at me. "You know, I think instead of that heavy fried chicken, some nice soup would be just the thing for you."

"I really think I can handle—"

"I think that's a great idea," Bobby interrupted. Then he turned to me with big concerned eyes. "We just want to make sure you're ok, Rogue."

"Bobby's right, dear." Ms. Munroe pulled me into a careful hug. "You gave the Professor and Jean quite a scare today. Let us take care of you, all right?"

Damn. Damn. Damn.

How the heck was I supposed to argue with that?

Huh?

How?

I couldn't. That was how.

I was going to miss out on the first fried chicken I'd had in almost a year.

One thing was for sure. I was going to remind Logan that in the Army, they shoot deserters.

* * *

The weapon was carefully concealed behind my back.

I wasn't holding it—that would be too obvious. Instead, I'd tucked it into the waistband of my pajama pants. The pistol grip rested, comfortable, in the small of my back, but the barrel was cold against my ass.

It was time.

I checked once more to make sure the hallway was still empty, then raised my hand and tapped light and quick on the door. The thin strip of light shining at the floor and the muffled rustle of movement told me he wasn't sleeping. I thought about opening the door, bursting in and firing, but checked the impulse.

That was too risky. He could be anywhere in the room, and with reflexes like his, if I lost the element of surprised, the mission would without a doubt fail. I could wait. Seconds passed, and finally I heard the unmistakable sound of bare feet padding toward me.

A lock clacked backwards. He was cautious, even here where it was safe. Interesting. I could respect that. Finally, the knob turned, and he pulled open the door.

"Well, this is a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here. Not tonight, at least."

I just raised a challenging eyebrow.

He stepped back and opened the door further, the unspoken invitation to enter serving as his answer.

I sidled past him, careful to keep my stride natural but my back turned. I could almost taste success. He closed the door, and I started to turn back toward him, my hand twitched. It was now or—

He grabbed my arm and had it twisted behind my back before I could blink. And just like that, I was pinned against the wall, my face pressed against the polished paneling. It felt like my shoulder was about three inches from popping right off of my body.

He leaned forward, growling, pressing his length against me and crushing me into the wall. "I told you your self-defense teacher was shitty."

And just like that, he let me go and stepped away. Taking my water gun with him.

I pulled away from the wall, shaking out my shoulder and frowning.

"How did you know?" I demanded. "I was _so_ careful."

He tossed the pink plastic gun on the bed. It sat there mocking me, and I shot it a disgusted look.

Logan crossed his arms over his chest and smirked, amused. Jerk. Then he held up a hand and started ticking off fingers. "One, you used tap water, which smells mossy. The scent tipped me. Two, you knocked and waited for me to answer. If something hadn't been up, you would have knocked then tried to barge in the room."

"Wait. So you're saying I was too patient?"

"Yup. Anything out of the norm gives you away. And then there's number three."

"Number three."

"I'm just too damn good for you to get the drop on."

"Yeesh. Modest, too."

"Modesty's overrated. So why the sneak attack, anyway?"

I pulled out the desk chair and sat down, taking a minute to shoot a dirty look Logan's way. "I was shooting you for desertion."

His eyebrows went up high enough that they almost needed to call themselves bangs. "Desertion? Kid, I just came back."

"Not that," I said with a wave of my hand. "You needed to go. I'm talking about this afternoon."

He looked clueless.

"You left me alone with Storm and Bobby."

Understanding dawned. "It seemed like three was a crowd, Kid."

"Oh, whatever. You deserted me."

"Desertion happens in enemy territory. Looked like I was leaving you in good hands. 'Iceman' seemed pretty eager to take care of you. Something I should know about?"

I shrugged and looked at the floor. I could feel a blush rising hot in my cheeks. "Turns out I have a boyfriend," I muttered to the floor. Who knew hardwood could be so interesting.

"Want to run that by me again?"

I looked up and frowned. "You heard me. Bobby's my boyfriend."

There was a heartbeat of silence during which I had time to fantasize about Logan throwing himself at my feet telling me it was a mistake, that he was the only man for me.

"Happy for you, Kid."

Stupid fantasies.

I shrugged. "It's not all that serious—I mean, with my skin it's not like it _can_ be that serious—but it's kind of nice. Sometimes."

Logan sounded completely unaffected. "Good for you. You deserve that."

I managed not to fall at _his_ feet and tell him that he could make me happy. Probably a good thing. The mansion might never get over the image of Logan running screaming through the halls and out the front door, never to be seen again. He had kind of a reputation as a badass, and would definitely dent it.

"So, how was your trip," I said by way of an exceedingly subtle subject change. "Did you find anything?"

Silence.

I looked up. Reluctantly.

Logan was staring down at me, looking pensive but not saying anything. After about 30 seconds of that, I started to feel uncomfortable. "Well? You going to answer?"

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"You want to quit the bantering bullshit and start talking about something serious, that's fine with me. But we're going to start with what was going on in the lab today."

High pitched whistle then BLAM! I had a sudden affinity for the way Hiroshima felt, getting a bomb like that dropped on me. I raised an involuntary hand to my temple and rubbed absently. "I thought we were going to—"

"I can wait, Marie." Logan interrupted. "But you're going to have to play fair."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I finally settled for meeting his gaze and nodding once. He nodded back and lowered himself to the edge of the bed. His knees were almost touching mine, and I started a little when he reached out a gloved hand—hadn't noticed those before—and lifted my chin.

"So, what's it going to be? We can talk hockey some more, or we can cut the bullshit and you can tell me what's happening."

I took a deep breath. Procrastination is one of my very best friends, and if given a choice I would have waited, oh, forever, but that wasn't an option, so I decided to switch slogans and say now was as good a time as ever.

I took a deep breath. "The Professor was trying to help me learn to control my gift. We've been working on it for a couple of months now."

Before I knew what was happening, Logan had reached out and pulled me out of the chair and on to the bed. We stretched out next to one another, him on his back, hands folded behind his head, me on my side, hands tucked under my chin. "Why—" I started to ask once we were settled.

"Sounds like there's a story here. Wanted to be comfortable to hear it, Kid."

I bit my lip. "It's not _that_ much of a story."

"Tell me anyway," he ordered. "Start from the beginning, and don't leave anything out."

I closed my eyes, all at once glad for the comfort of the bed. "Well, it started a few days after you left. I was trying to control Magneto's memories, and I found some interesting information."


	5. Chapter 5: Conversation

Title: The Jailers of Fate Part Five – Conversation

Author: CC62827

Length: 3,500ish Words

Summary: Set after X1. Logan comes back to the mansion and helps Marie learn to control her mutation.

Notes: So I had a hard time trying to balance the intimacy of "The Talk"—which I wanted—with not regurgitation everything that happened in the other chapters. What do you think about how I handled it? Does it make sense with the snippets? Feedback and suggestions are shiny! Also, was Logan in character? I had to fight not to make him too sensitive. It was hard, but I think/hope I did it.

* * *

_Talk that does not end in any kind of action is better suppressed altogether. –Thomas Carlyle._

I have a disorder.

Although it could be a dysfunction.

Or maybe a disease, even.

Wait, I know what it is.

It's a dis_ability_.

Yup, that's it—a definite disability. It's one of those really rare ones, too, that only affects like twelve people in the entire world. It might be even less than that. I might actually be the first and only person to have this particular handicap. That could be kind of a silver lining, right?

I mean, probably disabilities are like comets—if you're the one to discover it, you get to name it. And doesn't every little girl want to grow up to have a disability named after her? I bet it's right between "be a princess" and "ride a flying pony to the moon" on the Top 10 Most Wished For Little Girl Stuff list.

Ok, I'm full of it, but give me a break. I'm trying to keep my glass half full, here.

My disability works like this: For no good reason my mouth, which most of the time I can keep at least mostly under control, just starts moving, and I'm totally un_able_ to stop it. In the interest of political correctness, I call it being Filter-ally Challenged, which sounds much better than either, "Dumb-Girl-Doesn't- Know-When-to-Zip-Her-Freaking-Lips-Syndrome," or "Diarrhea of the Mouth."

Because I never do anything half way, the stupid disability always picks the best times to rear its head. Like the night during my Sophomore year when I came home 15 minutes _before_ curfew to find my Daddy in the living room waiting for me, tapping his foot and looking like he was going to jerk a knot in my tail.

He said, "Young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?"

And I proceeded to confess to snitching two of his beers and drinking them while I was on the deck tanning, stealing a thong from Victoria's Secret because I was too embarrassed to pay for it, then feeling guilty and anonymously mailing them $25 and the tags, skipping church youth group to go bowling with Toby Anderson—three weeks in a row—and faking a doctor's note so I could stay home from school to watch Hugh Jackman on Oprah.

Daddy looked dazed when he held up the crumpled chip bag he'd been holding behind his back. They were his favorites, and I'd eaten them all then shoved the package into the couch cushions because I was too lazy too walk to the trashcan.

Oops.

I ended up grounded for six weeks, and my parents decided Oprah was a bad influence and canceled my magazine subscription. Plus they took away my thong.

It was pretty much the same in Logan's room once I got going, only I didn't stop at Oprah. And I got to keep my underwear. My brain tried to get me to shut up, but my mouth was having none of it. Logan maybe could have stopped me—he seemed like the kind of guy who knew how to use a muzzle if push came to shove—but I didn't slow down long enough to let him try.

I actually made it through the first few sentences lying down. But I got antsy as I built up steam, and before I knew it, I was pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed, giving Logan a minute-by-minute break down of my entire life since he'd folded my hand around his dog tags.

There was the inane:

_"—and he was sitting on the bench. I probably shouldn't have, but I just couldn't help myself. I'm pretty sure that was your fault, though. At least, that's what I'm going with. Anyway—"_

"—_God, I was so nervous going in his office the first time. Then the Professor thought I was going to ask about—"_

"—_he's a nice guy, but he's so earnest sometimes. I just want to shake him—"_

There was the embarrassing:

"—_the first time she examined me was awful. I'd never had to do that before, and I just wanted to die—"_

"—_totally didn't know anyone was standing there. Then I turn around, and there's Pyro, smirking at me. And he says, 'Nice one,' so I think I'm in the clear, but then—"_

There was the pitiful:

_"—I know it was stupid, but I just couldn't take anymore. I didn't have anywhere else to go—"_

"—_hurts so badly. I didn't know it would hurt like that. Some days, I can't imagine how Mystique did it—"_

_"—buy stock in Diet Mountain Dew just to keep from going to sleep so I don't have the nightmares—"_

And I told it all.

"—and then the doors opened up, and there you were. I actually thought you were a hallucination until you said Jean's name and your voice got all _husky_. I knew there was no way one of my hallucinations would do that." I paused and took a deep breath, hoping he hadn't noticed how disgusted I sounded when I said husky. I wasn't sure what to say next. Air I didn't even know I'd been holding in my lungs left in a whoosh, and I finished with an infinitely lame, "And, um, yeah, that's pretty much it."

Then all of the sudden I was totally wiped out. Lucky for me, the desk chair was close. If it hadn't been, I might have hit the floor. Blabbering for 30 minutes without taking a breath will do that to a girl. Well, I'm guessing it was 30 minutes. It could have been two and a half hours, but we're keeping the glass half full, remember? Either way, when I finally finished my throat was dry, and I was felt like I'd been rode hard and put away wet.

Logan had matched me pace for pace on the other side of the bed for a while—actually, his was less like pacing, more like prowling; he reminded me of a big cat in a little cage—but at some point he'd either surrendered to sore feet or I'd completely managed to exhaust him, because he was sitting on the side of the bed. I bit my lip and flicked my eyes up and down in a quick survey.

Yum.

Beyond that, though, his arms were folded across his chest. His nostrils were flared a little. His lips were pressed together. His eyes were hard and starring at me.

All in all, he didn't look happy.

And the unhappiness seemed to be directed at me.

Crap. Crap. And double crap.

"Um, Logan?" My voice was tentative at best.

Logan looked up at me and growled, a muscle working in the side of his jaw.

Oh boy.

"Are you—ok?" I asked, gamely, trying again.

Silence. Oh this was just great. I broke him. The emotional outpouring was obviously too much, and it sent his system into shock. Just as I was trying to decide how to go about putting all of Humpty-Dumpty's pieces back together again, he deigned to speak, his voice as low and menacing as I'd ever heard it.

"I'm going to kill him," he announced.

"Huh? Kill who? Logan?"

But he was already on his feet, looking less like Logan and more like Wolverine than I'd seen him since the first day I met him. I realized his claws were out as he strode toward the door, and just like that I was on my feet. I grabbed his bicep without thinking about it, pulling him backward.

Well, _trying_ to pull him backward.

"Hey! What are you talking about? You just can't go off killing people!" He growled and shook me off of his arm—I couldn't help but notice he was careful not to cut me when he did it—and reached out for the door handle. Desperation rising, I did the only thing I could think of; I lunged in front of him and threw myself in front of the door. "Logan, stop!"

His eyes glittered at me, and I saw a flash of the animal inside him. It shook me for a minute before I reminded myself that this was _Logan_. He wasn't going to hurt me. Even so, I felt my shoulders sag with relief when he paused.

"Why not?" It came out more of a snarl than a question, and for a second I was thrown.

"W-why not what?" I stammered, confused.

"Why can't I go off killing people?"

My brain scrabbled for an answer and before I could give it much thought, I blurted out the first thing that popped in my head. "Think of the blood stains. Some of the carpets in this place cost more than most luxury cars." I paused for a second. "Well, the American ones, at least."

His head jerked backward almost like he'd been punched—not that I'd be stupid enough to do that—and all at once the feral heat in his expression collapsed into incredulous skepticism.

"The carpets—Christ, kid." He was shaking his head.

"What?" I asked, a little defensive but mostly just glad he didn't have the murderous haze thing going anymore. "It's true."

Logan scrubbed a hand over his face. For a second he looked as tired as I felt. "Only you," he finally said on a heavy sigh.

I decided not to be offended—at least I wasn't banal. Plus, his claws had retreated into his hands with a soft snick, so that meant I'd done something right. I tolerated the charged silence for about five seconds before I couldn't take it anymore.

"So who are you going to kill?" Believe it or not, death threats actually hadn't been the reaction I'd been expecting to my info dump.

Logan stared hard at me for a second. "The Professor. And maybe you. What the Hell were you thinking, Marie?"

I felt myself frowning. "Whoa. Back up. What do you mean what was I thinking?"

"Months. That jackass has been hurting you for _months_. And there you are just going back for more every fucking day. When I saw you in that bar, I thought you seemed like a smart kid. Jesus, was I wrong."

Just like that my temper flared. What right did he have to say—, "_Excuse me_. The Professor has been _helping_ me for months. Yeah, it hurts. But I know what I'm doing."

"Really?" He shot back, voice a growl again. "You know what the definition of insanity is, Kid?"

"I—no."

"It's doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

In the back of my mind, I realized I was fighting back tears. "Yeah, well, sometimes people call that not giving up." I turned around so he wouldn't see that my eyes were wet. "You should know all about it. You've spent 15 years doing the same damn things trying to find out about your past. But I guess you _forgot_ about that, huh?"

Tense silence, and I wondered for a second if I'd gone to far. Then I tried to pretend to wonder if I cared.

"That's different." His voice was flat. "And you know it. I wasn't hurting myself."

I wrapped my arms around my waist and hugged myself. He was right about one thing. I knew all about it. And he_ was_ hurting himself, even if he wouldn't admit it. My throat was too tight to say that, though, so I just kept my lips pressed together. The quiet stretched, and I was surprised when he was the one who broke the silence.

"Why the Hell would you put yourself through that?" This time his tone was gentler. Well, Hell. Angry I can take, but kind turns me zero to sixty into a watering can in 3.6 seconds. Just like that, the tears, which I'd been doing a pretty good job of holding back, broke through my defenses. I could feel them trickling silently down my cheeks. I wasn't going to say anything, though. I wasn't going to answer. Huh uh. Not me. I was a rock.

Hands landed on my shoulders, and I jumped a little. I hadn't even heard him crossing the room. "Why, Marie? Christ, I thought you'd be safe here."

I'm not sure if he turned me or if I turned myself, but before I really realized what was happening, my face was buried in his cotton-covered chest, and I was sobbing into his shirt. Mysterious stoicism was overrated, anyway.

"I want to control it, Logan. I have to. I'm so lonely. It worked for Mystique, and I can't—I just _can't_—"

That was about as far as I could get coherently. The rest of whatever I might have said was lost in my tears. Muscled arms wrapped around my back, and Logan stroked my hair. He moved us back toward the bed and sat down on it, pulling me into his lap and letting me cry.

It took a few minutes, but I managed to get a grip. When he realized the storm was over, Logan shifted me so I was sitting beside, rather than on top of him. He used my hair for a buffer and reached out to tilt my chin up so he was looking me in the face.

"Hey, careful of the skin," I warned.

"Not worried," he replied.

I decided there was a fine line between brave and stupid but didn't say anything else to caution him. Truth to tell, I liked that Logan was gutsy enough not to be terrified by the thought of accidentally touching me. Selfish, yeah, but at least I knew it and wasn't afraid to admit it. And knowing is half the battle. Yo Joe.

"Look, how about we meet with the Professor tomorrow? There has to be a different way. You might not care, but no one hurts you while I'm around." His voice at the end had an edge that made me think maybe he was still a touch peeved about the whole pain thing.

A warm feeling spread outward from somewhere in the vicinity of my heart, but I still felt the need to protest. It was sweet of Logan to want to protect me, but he had to understand that in the end it was my choice.

"Logan—"

"And there's something else I want to talk about," he interrupted. "Nightmares."

I winced and mentally cursed my ridiculous mouth. "Look, they aren't that big a deal."

Another strange look I couldn't decipher. "Kid, I live with them. They're a big deal. What I want to know is how did you get them?"

Where was a wall when you needed one to thunk your head against. I _so_ didn't want to talk about this, but I'd promised myself I wouldn't put it off once he got back.

"I—got a lot of you—when you touched me."

"I remember. You told me on the train I was in your head."

I bit my lip. I'd been dreading talking about this with him for months, but since I'd already told him most of it when I was babbling—not that he really got it the first time, it seemed—it wasn't quite as hard as I'd thought it would be. "I should have explained better, I guess, but I don't really understand it myself. It's just, when you touched me, I didn't just pick up a couple of your habits, I got—a lot of stuff."

"Stuff?"

I shrugged and looked away from him. "Memories. Dreams. Abilities. You name it. It happens like that with everyone. But with you it was just—more—and it didn't fade as much as everyone else. Maybe because you touched me for so long. I don't know. I just—if it's in your head, its pretty safe to assume I know it." I trailed off, bracing myself for yelling, clawing, and other general forms of fury at having the privacy of his mind so thoroughly invaded.

My eyes stayed glued to the floor, waiting for a reaction, for a long time. The roiling ball of dread in my stomach got bigger every second that went by. Finally, when I thought my choices were to demand he say something—anything, for God's sake—or explode, I chanced looking up at him.

Logan was staring down at me, expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry, Kid." He said when my eyes hit his.

I'm pretty sure nothing else in the whole wide world—ranging from, "You mental parasite, get the Hell away from me. I never want to see you again," to him just getting up and walking out—could have surprised me more than that. I shook my head in confusion.

"Sorry? Why are _you_ sorry?"

"You shouldn't have to carry that shit. I'm sorry you do."

Now _he _was looking away. I flicked my eyes around the room. Had we fallen into a transdimensional portal while I wasn't looking? Logan didn't do guilty. But there it was, clear as day. Logan felt guilty. I tried to think of something inspiring to say to make him feel better. Since I couldn't very well tell the truth—that I _liked_ knowing so much about him, having a part of him inside me—I was left scrambling.

I channeled my inner Pooh. Think. Think-think. Think.

Yeah. I had nothing.

"Hey look, everybody's screwed up," I finally settled for saying. "Seriously, you should have seen some of Magneto's memories. Talk about something I don't want to carry. And in the lab today I touched Professor Summers. If I start acting like a Boy Scout, you have permission to shoot me."

Surprise flashed across Logan's features for a second before they smoothed. "Right. I'll remember that. And I'll even try not to do it on any of the rugs." I had another witty comeback, but an unexpected yawn cut it off at the pass. Then Logan was on his feet. "Past your bedtime, Kid. Come on."

"Come on?" I stood up as I asked. "Come on where?"

He was herding me toward the door. "Back to your room. You may be young enough to stay up all night, but I need my beauty sleep."

I choked on a laugh. "Of course. What was I thinking? Why are you going, though?"

"Not letting you walk around by yourself out there, the crappy excuse for self defense you've been having."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm just going down the hall. Pretty sure I'm safe here, Logan."

He stopped so suddenly I plowed into his back. His eyes were hard again when he turned around. "Don't take anything on faith, Kid. That's a good way to get yourself killed."

I faked a laugh and said with forced levity, "Trust in God but lock your door?"

Logan opened the door without bothering to answer, and we walked to my room in silence. The mansion around us was dark, quiet, and opulent. When we reached my door, I sent Logan a tentative smile.

"Hey, um, thanks. For listening. And—" I waved in the direction of his still-damp shirt, "—for being a sponge and all."

He grunted a non-acknowledgement, but when he spoke his voice was gruffly affectionate. "Lock up behind me. If I lose you, I'm stuck dealing with these geeks all by myself."

I nodded and ducked into my room. I didn't hear him leave or anything, but my Logan-radar told me he didn't head back down the hallway until he heard my lock tumble. For no good reason, I felt heart swelling just a little.

He didn't want to deal with the geeks without me.

Not a declaration of love.

But it still sounded pretty good to me.

TBC…


End file.
